His Heart Will Be Undaunted
by Bony Hearts
Summary: Lord Alistair Kirkland of Anglia welcomed the arrival of the Jack of Spades in one cold autumn morning. Card!verse - Part 1 of 4.


**His Heart Will Be Undaunted**

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 _"The love of action is a principle of a much stronger and more doubtful nature. It often leads to anger, to ambition, and to revenge; but when it is guided by the sense of propriety and benevolence, it becomes the parent of every virtue, and, if those virtues are accompanied with equal abilities, a family, a state, or an empire may be indebted for their safety and prosperity to the undaunted courage of a single man." -_ Edward Gibbon, The history of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire.

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The butler came to inform them about the arrival of Spades Royalty when they were curling up against each other unwilling to leave the warm cocoon they had built in the chilled lights of morning. Alistair didn't even stir from where he lay wrapping his arms around the little, bird-like, figure of his younger sibling – ignoring the formal, respectful bow of the house attendant who patiently waited for the indignant patience of his master whom sudden presences of anything royal would enrage him into indifference.

Still closing his eyes, Alistair ran fingers through Arthur's golden strands, warm and gentle as though the casual caress of wan sunlight to the tender cloudy sky of autumn; Alistair took in a vibrating inhale then, and in the haziness of sleep Arthur could feel the energy of it rushing up like idle power as his fingertips trembled with the movement. His small hand slipped off while Alistair rose up, red hair falling down to the cease of the older man's thick eyebrows, dark green eyes gleaming as if a beast waken from its slumber and looking for the intruder in its fogged fury.

"Who's from the Monarchy?" Alistair asked starting to leave the bed with decisive efficiency nobly born and bred.

"It's the Jack, Good Sir," replied the butler, his tone mild and still – not expressing any indications of import, as though it were usual businesses to have one of the most important Court Mandarins' visit at one's residence. Then again, the house of Kirkland's was not unfamiliar to royal visitations, its ancient magnificently-carved doors having welcomed the frigid, crooked smiles of Ivan III of Clubs; the stiff, restrained lines of Ludwig VI from the Western land of Hearts; and the flamboyant, silver tongue of Clovers' King Francis IX. The royalties arrived to Anglia for pledges, contemplative glints in their eyes looking for a shift in political power and chance.

Anglia was a dangerous place, not only infamous for the menacing, great beasts roaming behind the silhouettes of wicked forests but also heedful of their volatile neutrality. Swords were sheathed in Anglia, but it didn't mean people would discard their weapons. Wanderers, lawbreakers, mercenaries took to this land like to a wayward home, bringing along with their soiled cloaks, shaded faces and careful lines valuable information that could be found nowhere all over the four Great Kingdoms. As precarious and subtle as the atmosphere of Anglia's was, here - long ventures could halt, conflicts compressed with iron unwritten laws, stories shared over mugs of vino, and schemes shifted in the shadow of delicate peace.

The Kirklands ruled this land for quite a long time, evident runes about the lineage's roots hidden somewhere on the dusty shelves of the family's esoteric library, whose paths were only known by the true heir. Alistair had been down to endless sets of dark, old stairs, trailing rows and rows of engraved wood, feeling the breaths of something beastly deep asleep in the gloom – feral, great, and familiar. Arthur would look up at him with that attentive glint in his eyes, inhaling like he could catch the smell of old pages and gleaming ink not faded by time, absently brushing the light dust from Alistair's clothes with his little careful hands. Standing by the tall figure of his brother, sheltered under the sturdy roof of his family, Arthur was small and for the taking, the blue mark covered by layers of fabric definably eternal like fate.

"Let him sleep a bit more," Alistair said, voice low, "Get the maids." The butler bowed and exited to summon the servants.

By the time Alistair made it to the parlor, eyes slightly narrowing from generous streams of morning light coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows – not for once concerning about appearing welcoming, the Jack of Spades was calmly seated on one of the magnanimously cushioned chairs built to lavishly discomfort, an appropriate smile arranged relevantly on his face as he deliberately and courteously rose up to greet the young lord. The sunbeams rested on the Jack's fine blued costume guileless and bright, dark slanted eyes clear and sharp.

"What is so of essence that can bring the eminent Jack of the Spades Court's to the humble doorstep of us Kirklands', may I ask?" Said Alistair; in his lines of civility drawled a stretch of leisured apathy, his long, clean fingers lightly tracing the golden embroidered patterns curling on his cuff of vinous shade. They were sitting opposite from one another, like on different sides of something delicate and sophisticated that seemed to never merge together.

Inertness wore the face of deference, the Jack patiently keeping his smile, undisturbed as though a touch of astute provocation, and when he replied, no teeth was shown as tender as a vow, "I've heard the high tides of beasts happening every ten decade are to be in this year on Anglian Calendar. In fact, the woods in Spades have not been peaceful either; our Court is actually concerning about worrisome movements of the wild creatures shadowing these places affecting the defense of some woodland townships." Spadian accent was as mild as a calm day, lifted and lowered to perfect persuasion. "As thing is, against these beastly tidal waves strong unity is quite essential. Regarding the general safety of our people, we wholeheartedly offer Spadian alliance in such time of need, Lord Kirkland."

A light, brief flutter of crimson eyelashes fell – Alistair sat like he was carefully listening, focus polished and indiscernible. The way of politicians was that they always seemed to speak sincerely, coating a fine layer of glimpsed commitment shaped to something tasting like honesty. Syllables held meanings clearly set and delish as a fine table of conventional three-course serving. But Alistair was often unobliging, even-minded to the wine proffered as if he was not unacquainted to luxurious propositions: a trait that had driven his sire to many bouts of frustration and fury – maddened by the unchanged quality of it even until on his last ragged breath. He didn't fear oppositions and disappointments, raised to oppress and trample on them to reach to the top of survival; that was Alistair. Untamed underneath titled name.

Therefore, he said, "Sire Wang, Jack of Spades, there is a matter that you must understand for Anglia. It is governed by our ancestors to be a land of conciliatory neutrality, which first and foremost has brought it to a balance so delicate that no one is ascertain enough to tip the scale, lest benefits could not overcome harms done. Truly, Spades is our valuable ally, and I would never speak lightly of this – but out of all the four Great Kingdoms, not one is not in our alliance, each showing different values. As for this rationale, I dare say if Anglia is to take up Spadian good-willed offer solely, will many of other Courts take in consideration for our long league in order not to disturb Spadian and Anglian peace? This, you and I both are certainly not sure. Anglian forces haven't the strength to afford enemies from the allies surrounding it. So, for the welfare of all involved, I regretfully decline your proposal."

Wang was looking at the young lord with something shifted in his seemingly accessible gaze of steely black, mouth tilting up to just a right tolerant line, not exposing any indication on his opinion towards such a finely put rejection beside tactful acceptance. One of them smoothly guided the exchange to a detached but not quite trivial topic to establish a favorable diplomatic atmosphere that allowed inoffensive breathing, the tea served between the two left to cold unmentioned. In spite of certain attitudes of one Lord Kirkland, the serviette of the household of course had to upkeep; the butler was devoted and efficient choosing the prized black tea only able to be found and harvested from the fertile hills Eastern of Anglia, where magic was flush and gentle to plants.

Yet, variance could not be quelled by sumptuosity, no matter how nicely it had been patched up. Over the course of many an extravagant feast or crafty dinner party, a mere uncustomary preference could be brought up for assessing, a wily laugh for the bored and wealthy – There were rumors Alistair could catch effortlessly owing to the exigent urge of people to spread them wide, whispered mentions of a Jack's distaste for the absurd praise for the valued black tea bearing the adoration of Anglians, viewing them crude in their unsavory lack of delicate textures. Admittedly, Alistair took a discreet pleasure in gathering and discovering a bit of details, which were as pleasant as the chilled untouched porcelain white and glistening as though a simper full of teeth. As far as proficiency went, his butler understood him well.

When amiability from both sides slowly became voided, Wang properly wished to leave before the welcome was over, his attire unruffled from the hard gilded curls of his seat, blue and agleam like the cold ascendancy that belonged to a King who had eyes as deep and dark as the frozen sea and reigned an empire lasting long and potent enough to be feared. Alfred the First was youthful and merciless; sprawling on his deceptive adolescent indolence were the sunken breaths of puissance and severity, sanguinary like the Capital of Spades dampened in the blood bath of a civil war. Alistair realized his kind when he saw one; sometimes, brutality came before childhood: it was not a matter of enmity, or duties, just purely subsistence of varied forms. It was the heads of your adversary, or it was your death that was sacrificed for the battles.

Alistair knew – Spades was keen. Thence, the Lord of Anglia himself saw the Jack to the door, the underlined tension casted away before the broad daylights, respectability paid where it was due, upholding the repute of alliance as long as gains were secured – there was no perpetual conflict; remaining indefectible were the benefits themselves.

He watched as the exquisite convoy departed, Spadian blue flags flowing unfalteringly in the unforgiving cut of Anglian gales. Then, he turned around walking back to the mansion in the midst of two orderly lines of subservient attendants, chevaliers lurking in places out-of-sight ready to safeguard. Arthur was hovering on a low step of the side staircase leading to the upper floor of the Western Wing, changed out of his sleeping gown and staring at Alistair in askance. Little body was swept up in sturdy arms, little fingers touching the tensed jaw of a lord who was still too young despite the phlegmatic ferociousness stern in his eyes, assailable and terrifying for all his will to protect – tender as he loved, and terrible as he killed.

"Who's the person from before? He made you uncomfortable," Arthur murmured, palms curling and soft to hold his brother's face; no one quite dared intimately caress Lord Kirkland like this, honest and worried, the way the two siblings leaned into each other's space easy and instinctive.

"Hold still," Arthur demanded. Alistair hummed an assuring, mild sound pulled from somewhere low and loose in his throat, reaching out to cover a side of Arthur's lithe shoulders, where he knew there laid a clock that hadn't ticked its hands, while blue light faintly glowed lining the contours of infantile fingers and getting absorbed.

"That's enough," Alistair reminded voice vibrated and fond with patient reproach. Round cheeks becoming flustered, Arthur pursed his lips stopping in obedience, and proceeded to bury his face into the crook of his brother's neck, breathing in familial smell. And as the young Lord Kirkland moved upstairs, cradling a precious heart, sensing the powerful guarding respiration of the monster slumbering underground, listening to Anglian winds howling willful to fetterless air, his steps were unyielding and solid, impenetrable even by tides of beasts, greed of nations, and threads of fate.

This was his Anglia.

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 **A/N:** The title is from "Jane Eyre" by Charlotte Bronte.

This story is an oneshot, written in the spirit of being as heartening as possible, as for the recent years my courage has been dulled to this cautious edge that makes me weary to everything. Autumn will soon be over, and I feel like it is essential to gather the warmth before winter can come and take me by surprise. On one hand, this is also posed as an inspiration recharge for me to continue my other projects. On the other, I just sort of relieved my obsession for Scotland/Alistair by writing some about him, with the precious company of a wee Arthur of course.

It kinda makes sense in my mind. Seriously. Do any of you see the implications about the future relationship of Alfred and Arthur...?

And as always, thank you for reading.

BH.


End file.
